DBM drabbles
by Crinklybrownleaves
Summary: These are all drabbles from bugsfic's drabble prompts on Tumblr. Posting them here just to keep them all together.
1. Chapter 1

**All based on the prompt 'stuck'.**

 **Stuck (100 words)**

Trapped in the passenger seat of his own car, Lucien rubbed his face, trying to ignore the stabbing voice in his ears.

"You embarrassed yourself, but you insulted the rest of us."

Couldn't she see his brain hurt and his stomach was threatening to mutiny?

After a night locked up, listening to endless stories about jumpers and dentists, then alone in the dreadful, suffocating dark, he needed air, and fragrance, and freedom, and sympathy.

He could taste Jean's disappointment. There was no escape.

The pain hammering his skull couldn't hide that other pain, the one that insisted she was right.

* * *

 **Stuck Again (100 words)** **based on a S5 promo picture.**

"Why can't we have a dinner party without you inviting along a photographer, Lucien?"

"Don't you want to remember this? People want to see us happy. It won't take long."

"We've been stuck here thirty minutes already, and I haven't had my sherry yet."

He grasped her hand firmly and moved it further up his thigh.

"Smile, Jean."

But her other hand had ideas of its own. Jean made her move.

He slowly turned his head to see her grinning.

"Is your hand really on my arse?" he whispered urgently.

"Just a taste of your own medicine," she replied.

* * *

 **Still stuck (200 words)**

A policeman is never off-duty. The noise that woke Charlie was brief, smothered, desperate, and so unfamiliar that he was immediately alert.

Suspecting burglars, he pulled on his trousers and looked around for a weapon. He tiptoed onto the landing and knew something was not right; the air held something alien, an electricity that didn't come from his nerves alone.

The linen-cupboard door stood open. Would a thief look in there? Charlie peered into the blackness of the closet, raising his shoe, his only defence, above his head. At that moment he sensed a rush of air, a trace of fragrance, and a firm hand on his back propelling him forward.

The door clicked shut, and he heard retreating light footsteps and a distant giggle. He shook the door handle but nothing would shift. A wave of shame washed over him; locked in a cupboard by a burglar. How would he ever live that down at the station? And then he thought again: that scent, that giggle…

Meanwhile, Jean closed her bedroom door and skipped back into bed.

"That'll keep him out of the way for a few minutes. Now, where were we?" And her hand slid back across his belly.


	2. Chapter 2

**Bathroom (50 words)**

Violet lies, a sacrifice for a doctor's sins, on the cold bathroom floor. The false priest cowers, the blade slips from crimson hands. Life-blood congeals round Mattie's feet and roars in her ears. No atonement will be found in this flow; only despair, and grief, and arrogance, and deceit.


	3. Chapter 3

**Women's work (50 words)**

"I thought women knew how to cook."

The burned lamb told a different story. Alice clenched her teeth, angry, not at the meat, but at the man. She may not be able to cook, but she knew how to stand up for herself.

"Close the door on your way out."


	4. Chapter 4

**For the prompt 'confession'. Two connected drabbles, 100 words each.**

"My dressing-gown has disappeared." Jean rushed in, dropping the clean clothes on the table.

"Hmm?" Lucien replied, glancing up. "Disappeared?"

"Yes. From the washing-line. Have you seen it?" Her frown deepened.

He had withstood torture without cracking, but he was struggling to remain impassive now.

"How can it just vanish?" Her question was clearly rhetorical. "Who would want an old pink dressing-gown?"

"Indeed," he replied. "I confess I never liked it. Maybe you should buy a new one? Something more…modern?"

Jean's eyes narrowed. Lucien made a mental note to move the robe to next door's dustbin.

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She held it up by the shoulders, and watched Lucien's mouth fall open.

"I'm so sorry, it shrank in the wash," she confessed. "The water must have been too hot."

"So I see…" he replied. His favourite yellow cardigan was a shadow of its former self: felted, shrunken, misshapen.

She looked so distressed that he forced a smile. "I'll buy a new one, just the same."

Jean's eyes shifted. "I'll come with you," she said firmly. "I think a jumper would suit you better. Maybe another colour?"

Lucien frowned. Then he remembered her old pink dressing-gown, and conceded defeat.


	5. Chapter 5

**Using the prompt 'a night to remember' 200 words. Set in S4E7 when Lucien spends a night at the hotel with Mei Lin.**

She slept, exhausted. Turned from him in the darkness, curled up under the covers.

He had watched her sleep, remembering when they had loved each other; before torture and hardship and distance killed it all. Eventually he lay down beside her for the last time in their lives, not to sleep, or to hold her, but to think and plan.

Even the affair couldn't hurt him now. Except…

Mei Lin stirred, frowning in half-sleep.

"Lucien?"

"Yes. About Li?" He hoped not to have to spell it out.

"She's yours," she murmured. "Don't doubt it."

"Then the rest doesn't matter."


	6. Chapter 6

**Using the prompt 'Prequel'.**

"You didn't come home last night." Jean's voice was flat.

He scarcely even looked embarrassed. "I went back to Harry's place," he said. "You'd have whinged if I'd come in legless.

Jean frowned, but he seemed unaware.

"Don't I deserve a few beers after a day's work?" Christopher threw himself down in the armchair and closed his eyes. As far as he was concerned, the conversation was over.

Jean sniffed, then leaned closer to check. That wasn't drink, it was perfume. Again.

Her stomach lurched and her chest tightened. Upstairs she heard Chris start to grizzle in his cot.

"I'm not a fool, Christopher. I've heard the gossip about you and her." Her hand strayed to her waist.

He opened one eye wearily and his gaze slid to her swollen belly. He gestured towards it.

"You've got what you wanted," he sulked. "Now I want some fun, someone who takes my mind off the farm, and the kids."

She flinched. Weren't they his children too? And someone had to think about the farm. Marriage was supposed to be hard work, wasn't it?

Her head dropped. This marriage was about to get harder. But she had no choice; she was trapped.


	7. Chapter 7

**Two connected drabbles, 200 words each, using the prompt "it's a secret", and a S5 photo.**

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"I thought we might eat out this evening, at that new French place." He kept his voice low.

Jean paused, the wooden spoon in her hand, as he leaned in to kiss her.

"I'm in the middle of cooking dinner," she hissed. "And we never eat out; we can't, can we?" She glanced towards the living room, where Charlie was watching television.

The eye conversation continued. A secret engagement was all very well, but it meant no dates, no sneaking around the house together, and no unexplained changes of plan.

"Charlie can eat that." Lucien nodded towards the stew Jean had been checking, and she stirred it automatically while she thought further.

"So you're asking me on a date?" She smiled flirtatiously, despite herself.

"I think it's about time, don't you?" He took the spoon from her hand and set it down gently on the dish.

She raised her eyebrows. "So much for being discreet. If we're going out to dinner together, why are we whispering behind Charlie's back? The whole town will be talking about it tomorrow."

Lucien waved away such thoughts. "You'll come?"

She kissed him slowly, lacing the fingers of one hand through his.

"Of course."

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"You should have said this was for a case," Jean grumbled.

He grinned at her. He'd almost forgotten about it in his excitement at finally taking her out somewhere romantic.

"Would that have helped?" he asked, and she had to concede it wouldn't have.

"What will we be re-enacting this time? Will there be 'involuntary moans' or would you like me to lie face down on the carpet?" He detected a small smile under that familiar frown, but suspected if he said what he really wanted, the date would soon be at an end.

Jean pretended to study the menu. She could feel the weight of curious stares against her back.

"What did Charlie say when you told him?" she asked, feigning nonchalance.

"Not much," he lied. "Now, what do you make of the waiter by the bar?"

While Jean was considering, he stroked her knee with his fingertips, under the table. When he tried this at home she got flustered, alarmed by Charlie sitting inches away, but now he seemed to be getting away with it.

"He's not used to waiting at tables." She hoped he would stop thinking about the case now. She had plans for later.


	8. Chapter 8

This drabble is really inspired by Nadine Garner's comment about Lucien and Jean, that in season 5 "in their heads they're in bed with each other". Bugs' 'Anticipation' prompt just happened to fit as well. So here you are! 300 words of…something.

In the dark chill of midnight, Jean snuggled down in bed, hiding from the reality of waiting. Months of stolen kisses and hurried caresses had merely fired her imagination.

She could taste the whisky on her tongue as if he were kissing her now, smell the soap and frustration on his shirts in the laundry, and hear his murmured endearments replaying in her mind. Desire rose in her again; she needed to stroke her hands over his warm skin and discover what delights lay under all those clothes.

Her hand slid down her belly, under her too-sensible pyjamas, until fingertips tangled in her curls, and she started to move them in the familiar pattern. Years of loneliness tugged at her as she felt herself respond, and tears pricked her eyes. This was not what she wanted any more.

Groaning softly, she got up and stripped off her nightclothes, dumping them hastily on the chair. She searched in the gloom for a box, hidden under her bed in a moment of guilt at the money spent on it. She lifted the lid on a wisp of ivory silk, finished with lace.

Jean snapped on the light, and gently pulled the nightdress over her head. Was it too soon? She'd intended to save it for their wedding night. Shaking herself free from too much introspection, she began applying makeup, dabbing at her lipstick nervously. It would not do to leave a trail of kisses…

At last she closed her eyes for a moment, seeking courage. They had waited long enough. With a glance at her reflection in the mirror, she smiled encouragement, before tiptoeing downstairs and across the hall. She tapped lightly on the door, then without waiting for a response, she slipped into his bedroom, and into a new life with him.


	9. Chapter 9

"Doctor Blake." Sam greeted him warmly enough, but with a hint of question in his voice. What brought him back again so soon?

"Sam," Lucien replied. "I need to buy a ring, an engagement ring." Despite all his intentions to keep the news quiet, Lucien could not help grinning at the shopkeeper.

Sam tried to hide his confusion. "Did the lady in question not like the other ring?" He had thought it rather fine, and found himself thinking less of a woman who did not appreciate it herself.

Lucien seemed uncomfortable. "The situation has changed, and I think a new ring is needed. A fresh start, perhaps." He avoided Sam's eye, and shifted awkwardly.

The jeweller was no fool; he too had read The Courier. He had heard the rumours. He had seen Mrs Blake at the Soldier's Hill Hotel, and Mrs Beazley hurrying between the grocer and the butcher, putting a brave face on in public.

Sam reached over and brought out a tray of rings. "May I suggest a sapphire?" he asked. "It will complement her eyes very well, I think. You'll need it adjusting to the same size as before, I'm sure." He smiled at Lucien conspiratorially.


	10. Chapter 10

Based on S5E2. 100 words.

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Fresh from encountering Jean, Rose tiptoed downstairs and risked a peek. The coast was clear. She crept along the hallway, lifting her coat from the peg.

She faltered as the door beside her creaked. She withdrew into the shadows.

Lucien stepped out, in pyjamas and bare feet, a furtive look on his face; Rose smiled again. Jean may have lost her nerve, but Lucien had not.

"Goodnight, Rose." She wasn't as hidden as she'd hoped.

"Goodnight, Lucien," she replied. "Jean's still awake. I think she may need some help with her knitting." She opened the front door, and slipped outside.


	11. Chapter 11

**Telling Alice, 200 words.**

"You'll come to dinner tonight?" The body lying between them gave the necessary distance.

Alice glanced up sharply. "Does Jean know you've invited me this time?" The horrors of her last visit were fresh in her mind.

He shifted uncomfortably. "Of course." This was not true, but he resolved to mention it before the guests arrived.

"Will it…?" she asked hastily. "Is it to discuss the case?" She rather hoped it would be; this would be safer ground.

"A family meal, Alice.." he replied quickly. "Just us, Matthew and Rose. Just family." He took a deep breath. "Jean's agreed to marry me."

He risked a glance at her. Alice was smiling. He had called her family, something she had never expected to have again.

"Well done," she murmured, almost under her breath. "Well done, Lucien." She could not quite understand what Jean saw in him, but she was glad for him, for them both.

Lucien felt oddly abashed, as if he had been scolded rather than congratulated.

Finally Alice remembered her manners. "I'll be happy to come." She looked away again, the old awkwardness reasserting itself. "Congratulations. Now, what about Miss Neville?" And she gestured at the corpse between them.


	12. Chapter 12

**Based on 5.6 and what I think might happen next! 300 words.**

"But you agreed!" Jean's voice rose, cutting through his attempts to calm her.

"I did," he said slowly, "but I shouldn't have. I'd already posted it by then, and I should have told you that. I'm sorry." Lucien touched her arm, willing her to look him in the eye.

She shrugged off his hand. The copy of The Courier lay on the table between them, the front page exposing their lives for anyone to see.

A hot, tight anger squeezed in her chest. He had ruined everything. All her attempts to fend off the gossips, all the times she had steered him away from trouble when he had been drinking, all her hopes of a quiet divorce and an intimate wedding, all had now come to nothing.

Three patients had cancelled appointments already, and he had just confessed to losing the Police Surgeon job too. For a woman who had known hard times, this was frightening.

"I'm sorry," he said again, "that I didn't tell you, and for all the difficulty I've made for you with the church, and now this…" He touched her fingertips and stroked them, and she did not pull away. "But I still think this way is our best chance of a divorce going through. Nobody will deny I'm a drunk." He attempted a smile.

His blue eyes always looked so innocent, Jean thought. Was it only last week that she had told him she accepted him just as he was? It would take more than this to break them.

But forgiveness has such a bitter taste. She steadied herself, her hand still in his.

"I know." she whispered. "One day none of this will matter."

This time, when she kissed him, he pulled her close, no holding back, and her arms went tight around him.


	13. Chapter 13

From the prompt: Bloody Hell!

"What are we missing?" He fussed loudly and at length about the case, barely noticing the TV was on.

"Quite a lot, actually." Jean shot him a glance of irritation. Couldn't he see she was watching Game of Champions?

Of course he couldn't, she complained inwardly, in the same way that he couldn't see when she was counting rows of her knitting or listening to the radio.

They were starting their relationship where most couples ended up, Mattie thought wryly. She smothered her laughter and shifted up on the couch.

The doctor and his housekeeper were behaving as though they had been married for years. Now Lucien needed to learn the ways of husbands everywhere: know when to stop talking. Perhaps she should give him a nudge in the right direction. It would be for his own good, for Jean's good too.

After Adelaide, everything changed. Game of Champions was still on the television twice weekly, but no one was watching it now. Jean's knitting was tossed aside, Lucien's newspaper abandoned on the table.

Her head on his shoulder, his hand on her hip, they had meant to watch the show; but somehow his nose was in her hair, her fingers were at his neck, and Verity and Alan Coleman were forgotten. No quiz-show prize could compete with the scent of her perfume or the warmth of his touch.

As she kissed the dip of his throat and his hand slid along her thigh, she hummed, he groaned. Once their lips met, softly, experimentally, the questions no longer mattered. The answers were here, at their fingers, on the tips of their tongues, in the longing for more.

"Bloody hell, Jean." He broke the kiss, breathless, but pulled her closer.

Meanwhile Mattie tiptoed past the open door, her work complete.


	14. Chapter 14

**Written for the prompt 'something smutty', based on the scene in 5.8 where Jean gives Lucien the calendar as a Christmas gift.**

"Honestly, you spoil me."

She blushed, just a little, at the thought of the present she had already given him.

xxxxxxx

Christmas Eve, and everyone had turned in for the night, but Jean was awake. Was this the first time she'd skipped Midnight Mass? Certainly this year she wouldn't be welcome.

She tiptoed downstairs; perhaps a cup of tea would help.

Did he hear the kettle whistling? Or was he sleepless too? As she poured the water over the tea leaves, a familiar hand crept round her waist, a beard bristled at her ear. She smiled. He was her joy.

"No church service tonight?" he murmured in her ear.

"I've made my choice."

Setting down the kettle, she turned in his arms. She gripped his arm hard as his mouth found hers, soft lips but urgent. Her belly tugged, warmth rushed through her, and this was just a kiss.

He pulled her close, hitched her up, teased her lip with tongue and teeth. A low groan, and she was his. One hand at his collar, the other seeking out skin, sliding at his waist, against his side.

The kiss grew deeper; she gasped a breath. Whisky, soap, _him_.

Then falling back in, nipping his lip, fingers trailing patterns on his belly, she leant in, kept leaning, until he stepped back. Almost dancing, both swaying, but she's leading, until his back stopped firm against the fridge door.

His turn to groan: her hand slipped lower, under his waistband. Her cool hand resting on his heated flesh.

Her bare toes brushed his.

"Jean..." He said in agony, slipping his hand inside her dressing-gown, grazing her breast.

She grasped his length, stroking, pleading. He surged unseeing against her hand.

As she sank to the kitchen floor, he heard her whisper, "Happy Christmas, Lucien."


	15. Chapter 15

Drabble prompt: alternative ending to a scene. Set on that bus at the end of 3.8.

300 words

xxxxxxx

If she kept her eyes closed, this could last forever. Her hand felt small in his, and his lips were pressed to her hairline, his breath warm on her skin. She had waited months for this feeling of relief. Now she let it wash over her. He wanted her.

Her reverie was rudely interrupted.

"You got a ticket?" The driver loomed in the bus aisle, viewing Lucien suspiciously.

Lucien patted his jacket pocket as if a ticket might appear.

"Er, no. Can I buy one now?" It now dawned on Lucien that his wallet was in his coat pocket, and that was still at the police station. He hoped Jean had money in her purse.

"All tickets must be bought at the booking office."

"Now I'm here, couldn't I pay you? Or at the first stop, at...?"

"Horsham," Jean murmured. Lucien glanced at her gratefully.

"Tickets must be bought before travelling," The driver was implacable. "You'll have to get off."

The passengers murmured, wide-eyed: was that the Doctor's housekeeper nestled against his side?

Lucien growled. Jean squeezed his hand in warning and reassurance.

"Then I'm getting off too. I'll need my suitcases." She stood and stared defiantly at the man. She had forgotten she was still holding Lucien's hand, but it had not escaped anyone else's attention.

Jean eased Lucien down the aisle and off the bus, then tapped her foot impatiently as she waited for the driver to retrieve her bags.

The bus pulled away, leaving them standing side by side.

"You didn't have to do that. You're supposed to be going to Adelaide." He paused, aware of what he was about to ask of her. "May I drive you, Jean? We can...talk, in the car."

"Yes." Her kiss to his cheek all the answer he needed.


	16. Chapter 16

Based on the prompt: police station.

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Her heels clicked on the polished floor of the darkened police station. She held his sandwich in a bag. A solitary light shone ahead of her in the office.

An urgent hiss, and then arms held her tight, dragging her backwards into velvet darkness. The door latched shut - a cry rose in her throat. One broad hand stifled her gasp, another gripped her close.

Then the prickle of a beard on her cheek calmed and thrilled her. His familiar scent filled her nostrils, every sense heightened.

"Lucien!" she chided, her voice still muffled by his hand. He moved it hastily.

"Jean," he whispered. "I'm sorry, but...Munro. I resigned as police surgeon, came back to empty my desk, and he's on the phone, listen."

In the straining silence she heard their breaths' syncopated rhythm, and a distant voice, angry then wheedling.

"Bribery, I think," he murmured, his lips against her neck.

She sighed agreement.

He drew her down to sit on the dusty cupboard floor, his back against the cold wall. Coaxing her across until she was leaning back against his chest, he cradled her between his thighs. He closed his eyes and swallowed hard. The temperature in the cupboard rose a notch. Perhaps she was ready after all?

Jean huffed uncertainly. Lucien surrounded her. He was everywhere; his heartbeat behind her head, his knees holding her tight, and something firm, persistent against her spine. She wouldn't think about that. Her stomach fluttered and tugged. Was this the time to tell him she might move to Adelaide? She gripped her knees tightly.

"Relax. Munro might stay for hours." With one hand he smoothed her hair slowly, with the other he stroked down her arm until he held her hand.

She shifted deeper against his chest. Patience could be pleasure too.


	17. Chapter 17

For the prompt: in bed. 300 words.

xxxxxxx

"But will the vacuum cleaner reach." Jean poked her head under the bed, and Lucien attempted not to look at her skirt stretched alluringly over her bottom.

"You don't have to worry about that anymore," he replied. "If you won't agree to a housekeeper we could get a cleaner for the heavy work."

Jean bobbed up, steely-eyed, which he found strangely arousing. "Marrying you won't make me incapable, I hope. I will still be cleaning our house."

"Are Sir and Madam looking for a bed?" The salesman's interruption came as a relief to Lucien.

"Yes," he replied firmly.

Jean muttered, "Maybe." She still wasn't convinced. Lucien had a perfectly adequate bed, and why pay all that money?

 _New marriage, new bedroom, new bed,_ Lucien had insisted.

The salesman was talking, but she was only half listening. "...Tyneman's Furniture's very best quality..."

How could they choose a bed when they had never shared one? Would it be...suitable? What if it creaked? Or was too hard?

"We must try it," she exclaimed. "Shoes off, Lucien."

She settled gingerly on the edge of the bed. Lucien stood with his mouth open, then obeyed and removed his shoes.

Under the bemused gaze of the assistant, they lay with a chasm between them. He had been sure they were married: all that bickering about housework. Yet they were so uncomfortable he would swear they had never...he slunk away rapidly.

"Lucien?" She shuffled closer. "Could we swap sides?" She glanced sidelong at him, her cheeks pink.

He grinned wickedly. "Anything you want, my love." He reached out and lifted her, planted a kiss on her forehead and ended with his arms tight around her. "Better?"

"Perfect." She traced his cheek with her palm. "Just right. The bed is good too. Let's have it."


	18. Chapter 18

**A Cold Day in Hell**

Lucien trudged on, feet slipping on the valley slopes, treacherous with mud and leaves. He stumbled, but his hands were useless to break any fall, bound together tightly with coarse rope which in turn was tied to a mule, led by his captors.

If the heat and disease of a Japanese prison-camp had been brutal, he now knew how deadly freezing rain and inadequate clothing could be; his fellow captive had died two weeks ago. Pneumonia, probably, but he had been able to do little for him. The man had fallen for the final time, then was kicked aside, not valuable enough to earn a place on a mule.

Lucien had been bartered in a furtive deal on the dockside when they landed. He remembered nothing of how he came to be on the boat, nothing after pursuing his suspect towards the bridge that day. He had given up asking what his captors intended for him or why he was here. He knew the answer lay in his past.

They moved slowly, steadily, as for several months past; pressing onwards but never arriving. He had only the vaguest sense of where they were: China of course, but further north than any area he knew. Freezing now, with snow-filled, pewter skies, and still only November. The warmth of a Ballarat spring slipped into his mind, and he firmly dismissed it. He couldn't think about begonias blooming in the sunroom or the aloe in their garden. The longing for home, and Jean, was too painful, too exhausting, and he needed his strength to survive.

Fat, silent snowflakes fell in the clear air. He flexed his chapped fingers, keeping the blood moving. _Focus: each heartbeat, each footstep. Keep breathing. Wait for the chance to escape, get a message home. Just live._


End file.
